


to keep from sinking

by like_theletter



Series: MCYT [6]
Category: Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Crying, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Healing, Hurt/Comfort, IRL Fic, Introspection, Platonic Cuddling, Platonic Relationships, Self-Harm, Self-Hatred, Vulnerability, heed that trigger especially, there is nothing graphic but this very explicitly explores the mindset of someone who self-harms, this is the single most 1:1 thing i've ever written
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-12
Updated: 2021-01-12
Packaged: 2021-03-17 05:54:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,752
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28719975
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/like_theletter/pseuds/like_theletter
Summary: He’s been thinking about it all week.He doesn’t remember where or when the thought hit him again (for the first time in a while) but he knows it’s annoyingly present, popping up at the stupidest and most inexplicable times.Tubbo laughs at a joke he made, and Tommy thinks—It’s stupid. He was having a good time, and then— that. It’s stupid, entirely, but it won’t fucking leave him alone.(Tommy battles an urge and struggles to accept people are there for him.)
Relationships: Toby Smith | Tubbo & TommyInnit, Wilbur Soot & TommyInnit
Series: MCYT [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2077845
Comments: 52
Kudos: 836
Collections: Completed stories I've read





	to keep from sinking

**Author's Note:**

  * For [unrequited_heartbreak](https://archiveofourown.org/users/unrequited_heartbreak/gifts).



> Title from Prozac Nation by Elizabeth Wurtzel. 
> 
> for Savana Unrequited Underscore Heartbreak <3 hope you like it!! 
> 
> just a reminder to PLEASE heed the trigger warnings on this one, boys. this is a vivid exploration of the mindset of someone who self-harms, so if you're triggered by that at all, please click off. your safety & mental health comes first. that being said, i am very much not trying to romanticise or diminish self-harm in any way-- this is directly based off of my own thoughts and experiences.
> 
> i'm typing this with wet nails btw and it's very stressful . how do all you hashtag girl bosses do it
> 
> also i wanted to let you guys know that i'm going to be coming out with some real-life au content pretty soon!! i've planned a whole au and i made a timeline and a spreadsheet and everything :D i'm really excited so i hope you guys are too !!
> 
> anyway that's all pls enjoy & tell me about your day in the comments

It’s not, like, a big deal.

Well. Several people he knows would probably disagree, but Tommy doesn’t _think_ of it as a big deal, and he guesses that’s what matters more in this situation. 

He’s been thinking about it all week. 

He doesn’t remember where or when the thought hit him again (for the first time in a while) but he knows it’s annoyingly present, popping up at the stupidest and most inexplicable times. 

Tubbo laughs at a joke he made, and Tommy thinks, _I want to cut._

See? That’s stupid. He was having a good time, and then— that. It’s stupid, entirely, but it _won’t fucking leave him alone._

Tommy’s just ended his stream, and he’s idly spinning back and forth in his desk chair, doing his usual post-stream maintenance, when he catches a glimpse of something under his hoodie sleeve. He pauses. Blinks.

Tommy tugs up his sleeve, feeling a lurch of… _something_ in his gut, and his hand shoots up to angle the lamp downwards with unwarranted franticity, knocking over a pencil cup as he does and scattering pens all over his desk.

Oh. That’s a scar. 

...Oh. 

He. Uh. He didn’t realize those scarred, from last time.

Uncomfortably aware of his own heartbeat, Tommy leans back in his chair, drawing his wrist to his chest and gnawing at his lip. He doesn’t remember the exact date of the last time he cut, but it was sometime in the summer months, hidden under swim trunks at his hip and bracelets on his wrist. He doesn’t keep track. 

Because it’s not a big deal.

For some reason, his body doesn’t seem to get the memo, because Tommy feels a little lightheaded on learning this information. He hadn’t thought— he hadn’t thought it would scar. He didn’t think it was deep enough.

Tommy slowly lowers his wrist and pulls his sleeve back again. Yeah. There it is. And— 

There are more.

Oh, they’re faint, but they’re there. A handful of little white lines ranging in opacity and size. He runs a finger down them. The texture is satisfying to the touch in a way that makes him utterly nauseous. 

Tommy inhales. Exhales. Tugs his sleeve back down, gathers up the pens and sets the cup upright, fixes the angle of his lamp. 

Oh well. Nothing to be done about it now.

The desire stays as a constant thrum in the back of his head. _I want to cut._

 _Not tonight,_ he thinks, as the feeling crawls up his throat. He’s busy.

Tommy goes to bed running his fingers over the scars. He swallows the regret, not of the marks, but of his inaction tonight.

It’s fine. He’ll do it soon, he knows. It’s inevitable once the want takes hold, however long it takes him. Nothing to be done.

-

A week passes, maybe. Tommy’s decided he’s going to do it tonight. 

Nothing’s really happened. He’s just felt empty all day, hollowed out and full of dread. It’s sickening, the relief the decision gives him, the rush of dopamine. He decides not to think about it too hard. 

Besides, he’s going to do it tonight, and then the _want_ is going to go away, and he’s going to have a texture to run his fingers over and then it’ll fade. No one knows, so no one will care. He doesn’t keep track, so it’s not like he’s breaking a streak. (Even though some part of his mind whispers, _you_ know _it’s been a long time._ ) 

Again, it is not a big deal.

Tommy grins for the stream and it feels realer than any time he’s smiled in the past month. Tommy tries not to think of what that says about him.

He has to get through this stream, and then he has to wait for his parents to go to bed, and then he’s good. He’s— well, he’s going to do it. 

The stream is going well, and Tommy takes note of how Wilbur and Tubbo are acting. They seem relieved, like they’ve noticed he’s a bit more genuine, and something like guilt, like shame wells up inside him— 

No— no. _Embarrassment._

Tommy’s just... embarrassed, that he’s so giddy about his whole attention-seeking _thing_ , that he hasn’t been better at hiding his rapidly declining mental health. (Yeah, he’s not stupid, he knows that’s what it is. He just doesn’t know how to care about it.)

 _It’s just embarrassment,_ he tells himself. _Yeah, it’s just embarrassment._

The idea of him feeling guilty about cutting doesn’t sit right with him. It— it makes it seem like a bigger deal than it is. Like something _tragic_ or _awful,_ when it’s just— he’s done it for years, y’know? He’s just— it’s just— 

Yeah.

Tubbo stays on call with him after the stream for a while. At that, Tommy is a horrible cocktail of relieved, annoyed, touched, and nervous, which is stupid, because again, it’s _not a big deal_ ; but Tubbo doesn't seem to notice anything is wrong.

“Yeah, I think it’ll probably change once we get more info, but that’s the one I think is most plausible, y’know?” Tubbo is saying. Tommy jolts back into the present. They were talking about the Warden, he remembers, the new Minecraft mob. Tubbo was talking about theories he saw on Reddit. 

“Tubbo—” His name leaves Tommy’s mouth without permission, without thought. It sounds frantic. It sounds terrified. Tommy winces. 

“Yeah?” 

_I want to cut. I’m going to cut. Stop me. Tell me you love me. Tell me you care. Tell me everything’s going to be alright._

He wants to. He doesn’t want to. He’s an idiot. He’s a coward. He closes his eyes.

“That’s— that’s really interesting, big man.”

Tubbo pauses for a beat too long to have ignored the fragile quality of Tommy’s voice. That’s confirmed when he exhales and says, “You know you can talk to me, right?”

Tommy can feel the words pushing on his tongue. _I’m going to cut. Stop me._

“Yeah,” he says instead, mouth dry. “Yeah, thanks.”

There’s another pause. Tommy sets his head down on his desk. 

“Okay, well—” There’s some shuffling on the other end of the call. “I’m going to bed, I think. Call me if you need anything.”

The wood is cool on Tommy’s forehead. “Okay,” he says absently.

“ _Tommy.”_ The firmness in Tubbo’s voice startles Tommy into looking up, even though neither of them have their cameras on. “ _Call me_ if you need anything.”

Oh, it would be so easy. So, so easy to say it. And Tubbo would be shocked, maybe, or disgusted, or horrified, but he would be relieved that Tommy said something, and most pressingly, the words would be _out._ Someone would know. Someone would care.

...Someone would know. Someone would care. 

Tommy _hates_ that idea. Tommy craves it. The words fill his mouth, press against the back of his teeth. He wants to. He doesn’t want to. He opens his mouth.

What comes out is, “I will. Goodnight, man. Love you.”

There’s a beat. Tommy knows, in the way best friends do, that Tubbo is pressing his lips together like he does when he’s disappointed. “Love you too. Goodnight.”

And he leaves the call.

Tommy is a nauseating mixture of relieved and disgusted. 

_Okay, no, shut up,_ he thinks. He’s going to do it. He’s going to. And then his brain is going to _shut the fuck up_ about it and no one will know and the texture will fade and _everything will be fine._

With that, he pulls up his mattress, grabs the razor blade, and walks to the bathroom. He’s just locked the door when his phone, still in his pocket, buzzes with a notification.

Tommy’s Do Not Disturb is on, so it has to be either his parents or Wilbur or Tubbo, and Tommy swallows relief-annoyance-nervousness at the thought that Tubbo would have messaged him after leaving their call. He thought they’d left it for the night.

It’s not Tubbo. It’s Wilbur.

 _Good stream today,_ he’s written.

Tommy doesn’t have to answer. He could power his phone off and set it on the counter and grab the blade and _fucking do it._

Tommy types back, _Yeah_.

He pauses, then adds, _You were awesome,_ ignoring the prickle of embarrassment.

The response is immediate. _You seemed to be feeling better,_ then Wilbur types, and stops. Types, and stops. 

_Wdym?_

Wilbur types for a while. Tommy turns the cool blade over and over in his hands, feeling… odd. Not sad, not nervous. Just odd. 

_You’ve seemed kind of down lately,_ Wilbur’s written. _Me and Tubbo were getting worried._

 _I’m fine, Big man,_ Tommy writes, then chews on his lip and adds, _No need to worry._

He’s doing it again. Types, and stops. Types, and stops. _You sure?_

Tommy starts to type out something reassuring, but another message comes in. _You can tell me anything tommy, I’m here for you._

The blade’s been warmed by his hands, now. Tommy leans his head back to rest on the wall. He doesn’t know what to do. He wants to. He doesn’t want to.

Quickly, too quickly for him to change his mind, Tommy closes his messages and opens Instagram. Doesn’t matter that Wilbur can see he read the message and didn’t respond. Nothing to be done.

Tommy continues to thumb through his explore page, because even with the promise of his own blood on his hands, he can never take himself seriously, can he?

It’s a moment of reprieve. Distraction, if he wants to get technical, which of course, he doesn’t. It’s just— just a moment where he doesn’t have to decide. Doesn’t have to do anything. He can breathe, fiddling with the blade and pretending it isn’t one. 

Some clip from a TV show pops up, and Tommy turns up his volume. Oh. It’s that show, Mr. Rogers, or something— that _American_ show. Tommy scowls reflexively for the bit, even though there’s no one around. He keeps listening anyway.

“You know, the toughest thing is to love somebody who has done something mean to you,” the guy says. His voice is kind of nice. But Tommy has no interest in watching some guy talk about his feelings, so he goes to click off, when— “Especially if that somebody has been yourself.”

Tommy freezes.

“Have you ever done anything mean to yourself?”

Tommy drops the blade. 

_Have you ever done anything mean to yourself?_

It’s like everything he tries not to think about comes crashing down on him all at once. 

Tommy takes a choked breath, tears welling up in his eyes, blurring the screen. He’s— _have you ever done anything mean to yourself—_ his phone clatters onto the floor, he clutches at the front of his t-shirt. He hasn’t cried in so long, even when he’s wanted to, no matter how fucking terrible he feels, and now he can’t stop, and jesus, he’s going to wake his parents up, he’s going to hurt himself—

He’s— 

_That’s what I’ve been doing, innit?_ Tommy thinks, verging on hysterical. Yeah, ha, he’s not fucking stupid, it’s called _self-harm_ for a reason, but he hasn’t thought of it as hurting himself in— years, probably. Hasn’t thought of it as a bad thing.

How fucked up is that?

Tommy feels a frenzied laugh bubble out of his throat and thinks briefly about how fucking deranged he must sound. He fucking— he thought he was functional. He thought he was _fine_. 

The clip is still playing, having looped a couple times. Tommy hears, “Well, it's very important to look inside yourself and find that loving part of you. That’s the part you must take good care of and _never_ be mean to.”

Tommy curls up tighter, drawing his fists to his chest and clutching at his collar. His lungs just aren’t fucking working. He’s sobbing like a little kid. He reaches up to scrub at his face with the heel of his hand, and— 

—catches sight of the scars. 

For a second, Tommy takes a step back. Metaphorically.

He’s been cutting for four years, at this point. 

That’s… that’s _fucked up._

He thinks about Tubbo’s sister Lani, only one year older than he was. God, she’s so _little_ , so bright and youthful. He thinks about himself at that age. The baby fat that clung to his jaw, the high and reedy pitch of voice, the gap between his front teeth. 

_I didn’t deserve that._ The realization hits him with physical force, knocking the breath out of him, sending fresh tears streaming down his cheeks. _Fuck. I didn’t deserve that._

Without thinking, Tommy grabs his phone, typing in his passcode. He’s shaking so badly that it takes him three tries. His fingers are still wet with tears. They leave streaks on the screen. 

Before he can talk himself out of it, he calls Wilbur. 

Wilbur picks up on the first ring, which sends a pang of _something_ shooting through Tommy’s chest. “Tommy?”

“ _Wilbur_ ,” Tommy sobs, wrapping his arm around his own waist and clutching at the back of his t-shirt. 

“Tommy— oh, god, Tommy, breathe!” Wilbur says, sounding alarmed. Tommy can’t blame him. He’s sobbing so hard he’s practically choking on it, breath hitching and pinwheeling erratically, and this is the first thing Wilbur’s hearing on picking up the phone. 

“I— W-Wilbur, I’m—” 

“Hey, hey, Tommy.” Wilbur seems to have switched tactics, and now sounds like he’s soothing a stray animal. Tommy would usually be embarrassed by it, but it’s so _nice._ “Tommy, Toms, can you breathe for me?”

Tommy takes a shuddering breath and sobs on the exhale. His throat burns. 

“That’s great, darling boy, you’re doing wonderful.”

 _It must be really bad if he’s breaking out the pet names,_ Tommy thinks deliriously. He takes another breath, and it goes smoother, to his relief. 

“There you go!” Wilbur sounds a little more at ease upon hearing Tommy breathe semi-normally. “Okay, you’re okay, see?”

Tommy can’t help but huff a pathetic little laugh at that, wiping his tears with the end of his sleeve. 

“Do you want to tell me what’s wrong?” 

There it is. There it is, in Wilbur’s Soft Voice, sweet as honey. He’s not fucking it up this time. He’s doing it.

“WilburcanItellyousomething?” Tommy blinks, then clears his throat. “Can I tell you something?”

There’s a beat. “Of course, Toms, you can tell me anything. I meant what I said.”

Tommy inhales. Exhales. He’s not a coward. He’s going to do it.

“I... I really want to— to hurt myself right now.”

Oh god. It’s _out._

Tommy can feel his heartbeat in his fingertips and his stomach and his neck, but it’s something more than nerves, it’s— it’s relief. Real relief, not tinged with guilt. His next breath comes a little easier. 

...However. He doesn’t miss the sharp inhale on the other end of the line. Or the weighted pause that comes after it.

“Where are— are you somewhere safe?” Wilbur asks. His voice trembles. Tommy’s heart aches at the thought that Wilbur _cares._

Tommy nods, then realizes Wilbur can’t see him and responds with a quiet, “Yeah.”

“Have you… have you hurt yourself before?”

Even quieter: “Yeah.”

“ _Tommy_...” Wilbur sounds on the verge of tears. 

“I wanted to all this week.” Tommy’s mouth moves without his permission. His voice sounds wrecked. “And— and I had decided to finally do it tonight, but then I saw this thing and I guess I— I guess I kind of realized what I’m actually doing, like, to myself, and I just, I feel so fucking _bad,_ Wilbur _—”_ his voice breaks, “I don’t want to do this anymore but I’ve done it for so long, I don’t— I don’t know how to stop, I don’t want to stop, but I _do,_ I just…” He trails off as a few stray tears roll down his cheeks, mouth numb. “Yeah,” he finishes lamely. 

“Tommy, you’re— I—” Wilbur takes a deep breath. “I’m so sorry that you’ve had to deal with this, Toms.” His voice breaks. “I’m so fucking sorry. You d— you don’t deserve this.”

There’s that sentiment again. Tommy’s chest aches at the sheer _sincerity_ bleeding through Wilbur’s words. 

He rubs his eyes and says, “I’m just… overreacting, I guess—” 

“ _No_ . You are not overreacting.” The sudden fierceness in Wilbur’s voice surprises him. “Tommy, you’re— you’re _so_ fucking strong for wanting to stop, okay? That shit’s hard. And to be dealing with that on top of having an audience and being a teenager? You’re— you’re _incredibly_ fucking strong, dude. Don’t forget that.”

Tommy lets out another sob, but it’s through a smile. “Th-thank you, big man.”

“Don’t thank me,” Wilbur says, sounding vaguely hoarse, “ _Thank_ _you_ for calling me, okay? I can— I know how hard it must have been, so… Thank you.”

“I didn’t deserve it.” His voice has a fragile quality to it that he hates. 

There’s a pause. “What?” 

“I’m— I’m realizing shit,” Tommy says with a watery laugh. “And I realized that I— that when I started c— hurting myself, I was just a kid. I didn’t deserve it.”

“You still don’t,” Wilbur says softly. 

Tommy blinks. “What?”

“You’re still a kid, Tommy,” Wilbur continues, sounding achingly sympathetic. “You’re only sixteen. You don’t deserve to be hurt either.”

“I… But, I—” 

“You’re thinking back on yourself and realizing you didn’t deserve that, because you didn’t. But one day you’ll look back at sixteen-year-old Tommy and think, _wow, he didn’t deserve that, either_ and wonder how you missed it.” Wilbur chokes up. “Believe me, I know.”

Tommy’s mouth feels numb. “You…”

“Yeah. Nobody deserves that. I didn’t. You don’t.”

Tommy’s eyes burn and he clamps a hand over his mouth to stifle another sob. He hasn’t felt this— this _brittle_ in so long, but Wilbur’s making him feel like he’s _allowed_ to be, like if Tommy breaks Wilbur will gather up the fragments and hold his hand as he pieces himself back together. Like he still deserves sympathy, deserves love. Like a kid does.

Wilbur’s shushing him gently on the other line, murmuring reassurances. 

“Hey, Toms, do you want to hear about the song I’m working on?”

Tommy pauses, gasping, and mumbles a _yes_ because a distraction sounds really nice right now and Wilbur’s slipped into the soothing, gentle, brotherly tone that always makes something warm blossom in Tommy’s chest. 

Slowly, Tommy picks himself up from the bathroom floor and lets Wilbur’s soft rambling lead him back to his bedroom. He flicks the light off and pulls a blanket over himself, setting the call on speaker with slightly trembling fingers. 

That night he falls asleep listening to Wilbur’s— to his _brother’s_ muted chatter, feeling safe, feeling warm for the first time in a while; feeling _taken care of_ in a way he hasn’t let himself before. 

-

He decides he’s going to tell Tubbo.

It’s not planned by a long shot but not quite spur-of-the-moment either, more morning-of. Tommy’s spending the day with Tubbo— in real life. Even though it’s happened way more often since Tommy moved to Brighton, it always feels like an adventure. 

To be fair, they do have a lot planned. Beach shit like the time they vlogged, seeing a movie, going to the shops, streaming (obviously), then finally, Tommy sleeping over. He’s insanely excited. Fucking duh. 

Tubbo wraps him in the best hug he’s ever had in his life when they first see each other and it settles something anxious and keening in Tommy’s chest. Like he’s saying _I’m here, I’ll always be here._ (What he actually says is “You’re too tall,” but it’s the way he clutches at Tommy’s sides that counts.)

Technically speaking, there are ample opportunities for Tommy to tell him throughout the day. When they’re enjoying the shade and the warmth of the sand and Tubbo leans back on his elbows and closes his eyes, Tommy thinks about telling him. When they come out of the movie theatre and Tubbo links his arm with his, Tommy thinks about telling him. When they’re walking to Tubbo’s house from the shops and there’s a lull in conversation, Tommy thinks about telling him.

But he doesn’t.

And he _keeps_ not telling him, and keeps not telling him, and over the course of the day Tommy’s nearly talked himself out of it. It’d suck, he thinks, to ruin the good memories of the day with his… drama. Tubbo probably doesn’t even care. 

Wait. No.

Tommy catches that thought for what it is— _not fucking true_ . He thinks about _you know you can talk to me, right_ and _call me if you need anything_ and _love you too._ He thinks about the way Tubbo lit up at seeing him this morning, how he surged forward to hug him then hesitated, flushing. He thinks about how every time they do a serious roleplay stream together Tubbo checks in on him afterwards, chatting quietly, as if reminding him they’re still best friends. _I’m here, I’ll be here._

Tommy holds onto those thoughts with a white-knuckled grip and tells the nasty voice in his brain to _fuck off._ His best friend is right there in front of him, looking around at the shop fronts then glancing back at Tommy as if to see his reaction, glowing with joy. He’s not going to lie to himself.

Near the end of their trip to the shops, they stop in Asda to grab a few things for the stream, and Tubbo has the brilliant idea that they should get snacks for the night. Their plan is to marathon all four Toy Story movies. “We’ll need fuel,” Tubbo reasons with a faux-serious expression, and Tommy can’t fault his logic. 

They spend almost an hour fucking around in the store, reading the product labels in dramatic voices and making up backstories for random people and looking at product promotion photos to point out models that look like they’re dead inside. It’s a blur of laughter and stupid jokes, and Tommy lives and breathes for every second of it.

Streaming is similar— chat goes wild over the two of them and their banter. It feels even more electric when they’re in the same space, and Tommy resists the urge to repeat the comment he made a few months ago about them matching each other’s energies too well. It’s like the whole Mario thing all over again.

The stream is simultaneously hours long and way way too short. Before he knows it, he’s waving goodbye, and Tubbo’s thanking everyone for their subs and Primes. (The stream on Tommy’s channel is scheduled for tomorrow. They’d kicked around the idea of doing both in a day, but mutually agreed they wanted some time to hang out by themselves— no cameras.) 

So it’s 4am, maybe, and Toy Story 3 is playing at very low volume on the TV. They’re in their pajamas, snacks and empty cans of soda strewn about. Tubbo might have already fallen asleep; Tommy’s not sure. They’ve talked about anything and everything. 

Except.

Except Tommy still hasn’t told him.

Before he can talk himself out of it, Tommy says, “Tubbo?” quietly into the darkness.

Tubbo doesn’t answer, and for a second, Tommy loses his nerve. Tubbo’s asleep. He’s lost his chance. But then he hears a shuffling and a sleepy-sounding, “Yeah?”

Tommy opens his mouth. Just say it. Just say it. “Can I tell you something?” 

There’s a beat. “Of course,” Tubbo says, more awake this time.

Wilbur said that too. _Of course._ Like it was a given. Like the thought of them not listening, not being there is ridiculous, not a thought at all. Warmth bleeds into Tommy’s chest.

“I—” And at the most critical moment, of course the words get stuck. He chokes a little, clears his throat, and tries again. “I’ve— I—” 

The words won’t come. _Fuck_ . That’s it, he guesses. Glass breaks in his heart. It was a bad idea anyway. Wilbur was a fluke, the whole thing was stupid, _he_ was stupid to think it’d be easy to say it again, like he could just say it no problem after an entire day of—

Tommy feels a hand on his knee. He turns to see Tubbo, cast in odd angles by the flickering light of the TV, looking concerned. He must have shuffled over there while Tommy was freaking out, and that alone sends a swell of fondness through Tommy’s chest, softening the broken edges and mercifully loosening his tongue.

Tommy wrenches his gaze away from his best friend and says, “I’ve been hurting myself.”

There's a heavy pause. Tommy closes his eyes. He can’t watch Tubbo’s reaction, doesn't want to watch the disgust or shock or pity or _whatever_ bleed into his friend’s face. The rational part of his brain tells him Tubbo will be his friend no matter what, but the nasty voice returns with a vengeance, screaming _he’ll never look at you the same way_ and _he won’t be close with you anymore_ and _you fucked up._

Arms wrap around his waist and a face is buried in his shoulder. 

“Thank you for telling me,” Tubbo says, muffled. It’s hard to read his tone but he doesn’t seem disgusted or horrified, etcetera, just— just sad. 

Tommy blinks dumbly, a little in shock. Just like that? He’d expected— well, he doesn’t know _what_ he expected, but he definitely imagined some long conversation in which he’d be interrogated about _how why how long why didn’t you tell me_ or preached at about how _self-harm is bad—_ which he fucking _knows_ , by the way. Nothing Tubbo did made him think that, he just— assumed. 

And as he’s learning more and more recently, his assumptions are not always correct.

Tommy turns to face Tubbo so he can fully reciprocate the hug, looping his arms around Tubbo’s shoulders and placing a tentative hand on the back of his head. Tubbo grasps tightly at his pajama shirt. 

“I’m— I’m sorry,” Tommy says suddenly, not quite sure what he’s apologizing for.

Tubbo shakes his head, hair brushing against Tommy’s chin. He pulls back and Tommy’s horrified to see his eyes are wet, gleaming in the light of the TV screen. “Don’t be sorry. You’re— I’m really glad you told me, okay?”

Tommy swallows. “Okay,” he says thickly.

Tubbo searches his face. For what, Tommy doesn’t know, but Tubbo’s expression softens further and he places his hands on Tommy’s shoulders. “You— you need to listen to me, okay? Listen to me.”

Tommy nods, feeling a little lost.

“You’re my _best friend._ You mean literally everything to me. I love you, and I—” Tubbo’s voice breaks, and he pauses a moment to scrub a tear from his cheek. “I don’t want to see you hurt. So— so please, _please_ talk to me, okay? You’re not a— a burden, or a bother, or whatever. I _want_ to help you.”

Tommy blinks. Drowning in overwhelming _gratitude,_ fondness for his best friend, the feeling of being _loved_ , he pulls Tubbo into another hug and lets the tears he’s been holding back flow freely. He focuses on the little things: the grip Tubbo has on his shirt, the movie playing quietly in the background, the crinkle of an empty crisps bag as Tubbo shifts on top of it. He’s _here,_ he’s _safe,_ he’s _loved._

That feeling sticks with him as he falls asleep with his head on Tubbo’s chest, all the way into the next morning, through his stream, and finally when he has to go home and Tubbo grips him in another one of those safe-feeling hugs with a blinding smile. 

Tommy won’t lie. As he watches Tubbo get back in his parents’ car, he worries that as soon as he stops being near his friends, everything’s going to come crashing down. He’s going to fucking— forget, somehow, that he’s loved, that people care what happens to him, care if he’s hurt. He can feel the heaviness tugging at his chest insistently, the nasty voice whispering again. God. It would be so easy to give in and be right fucking back where he started. And he wants to. 

Except, no— wait— fuck that. 

He _doesn't_ . He doesn't want that. He wants— he wants phone calls and shopping trips and _safe_ , and if he has to make himself vulnerable for that, then— then he'll fucking do it. He’s done it by himself for too long. That’s _it._

Tommy shuts the door and leans against it. 

Things will be better from now on. He’ll _make_ things better. 

**Author's Note:**

> leave a comment of what you liked (or what you didn't) and thanks so much for reading!
> 
> be kind to yourself this week pls <3
> 
> once again Savana Unrequited Underscore Heartbreak please like it if you don't i'll cry


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